Written by Ash Catcher.
Not quite pastry, not that flaky.
What exactly are you?
Just sitting there unassuming, planning the next brunch coup.
You are weird, and not the good kind.
Guess I am going into your holes blind.
Not a pancake, or a crepe, yet you’re shoved in my face.
When late to work, I guess you fit into a briefcase.
Jams, Syrups, and Ice Creams, doesn’t matter how you jazz it up you’re nothing underneath.
And I'll be damned if you keep getting stuck in my teeth.
Oddly undercooked doughs of checkerboard.
And yet when it comes to breakfast you’re so idolized and adored.
A waffle station, you boujee little shit.
If you're in a cone form and fall, kids pitch a fit.
When it comes to you waffles, I think you have lost me.
More expensive than pancakes, all batter should be free.
When it comes to waffles, I guess we could write a novel.
But then I would be waddling to work or school.
Definitely a some time treat.
I guess if you really wanted to I could eat you with meat.
But that would be gross, and I am a fucking vegetarian.
Waffles they’re alright I guess, but they cannot spell antidisestablishmentarian.